Exchange
by PenetratingBlackEyes
Summary: Dustfinger beckoned the White Women to him, called them with the flames, so that they could bring the boy back. oneshot


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Inkheart or Inkspell, and I certainly don't own any of the wonderful characters that populate their pages.

**A/N: **My God. This may be the only thing I've ever written that I'm actually proud of. That's probably not a good thing to say outside of my head. Oh well. Please enjoy, and remember to review.

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**Exchange**

Dustfinger heard Meggie trotting away, and leaned down beside Farid. Farid, lying still on the ground, his face cold, his black hair that was now tinted gray with soot hanging over his closed eyes; dark black eyes with extraordinary long lashes. It was amazing how much emotion these eyes had held. Unlike him, Farid never had been very good at hiding his true feelings, and even when he was they still showed in his eyes. Rage, fear, hope, expectation, joy, love.

Eyes only for him. Only for Dustfinger. And perhaps Meggie, too.

Meggie. He couldn't hear her footsteps anymore. Dustfinger slowly shook his head as if to ward off all thought and stood. He couldn't waste time. It wouldn't take Silvertongue's daughter long to find Roxanne, and as soon as she'd repeated what he'd said his wife would come rushing here. What if she arrived before he was done? Dustfinger knew what would happen then: he'd lose all his nerve, his cowardly self would return and the boy would remain dead.

Dustfinger's heart throbbed, sending waves of grief through his body, but he channeled the emotion into calling the fire; he huskily beckoned forth the flames, coaxed it into life. Sparks scattered across the earthen floor, making distorted shapes. Flowers, a marten, tiny elves that glowed a bright, bright orange. All the things that Farid took delight in. They splayed down at his feet and more sparks came and lovingly caressed the boy's face, if only for a second. Flames licked up Dustfinger's arms and he painted letters on the wall; letters that cast a fiery glow over the room and everything in it. Except for one thing.

The White Women. Several of them had gathered in the room, lured by the fire they so feared, yet so yearned for. Or had they come because they sensed that he, Dustfinger, himself was dying? After all, isn't that what happened when your heart split in two?

They lingered around the walls, still wary of the dancing flames. He needed them to come closer; he used the fire to draw them in, just like moths. White Women – not solid, yet not transparent. They were close to him now, seducing him, whispering his name. Dustfinger opened his mouth, and then closed it. Words were meaningless now. They knew what he wanted; he felt it as their hands roved over his body, and the fire burned, sending off crackles that seemed to speak for him. _You want me, and I need you._

They knew what he wanted; knew what they must do if they were to have him, take him wherever it was the dead go. Their hands were still caressing him.

It wasn't a strange thing at all to be dying. All those stories about how it was horrifying when your spirit finally left your body; how it was painful, pleasing, peaceful. All off the mark. Why, dying felt like the most natural thing in the world. If, of course, he really was dying. Who was to say? Maybe he really wasn't dying at all, but merely leaving this vessel, this world, and going with the White Women to a new one. And, when he'd spent his days in their world, would he 'die' and move onto another world, another container for his soul? And how long would this carry on? Indeed, how many worlds were there? Surely there were hundreds.

For the first time since he'd summoned the fire a ripple of fear shot through his essence, his being. If that were true, how would he get back to Roxanne? He'd promised her, and he'd promised Farid, too, even if the words had never been spoken aloud.

The White Women were almost done. Dustfinger felt strange. He was still in his body, but barely. Most of his true being was waiting with the White Women, waiting for the rest of his sould. Waiting for Farid.

Farid. Was he alive? He had to know before he moved on. Before the rest of his spirit left entirely, he turned his head – it felt light, yet heavy – and looked for the boy. He could dimly hear footsteps; his vision was blurred from the smoke, and everything was hazy from the letters shining on the wall. But he could see him. Farid stirring, even for just a second. But Dustfinger knew he had; knew he had truly moved, that it was not an illusion. He knew it with a certainty that no human creature of flesh and blood could ever feel.

If he hadn't been nearly completely gone he would have smiled. Instead, he thought, _Goodbye, son._

Then he died.

**END**


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